But they, like so many others, underestimated Golgren. The prisoner’s axe came within a hair’s breadth of Golgren’s shoulder, and as momentum carried him past, Golgren slashed his wrist with his strapped-on talons.
The huge ogre growled, his weapon dropping and blood pouring from open veins. He gripped the bleeding wound tight, his eyes turning as red as his hand. A berserker fury filled him.
And while that happened, the other prisoner launched another attack, aiming for Golgren’s leg. The thrust was an obvious one, however, and the grand lord moved to the side.
Without warning, he felt something clutch at his chest, squeezing it painfully.
That pain was superseded a second later by a more painful slice across his thigh. Golgren hissed and stumbled back, but his attacker followed after him closely. All but smelling his victory, the prisoner threw himself at the smaller figure.
And again, there came the tight and startling clutching of pain in his chest. Stumbling, Golgren dropped to one knee. He gazed up dully as the sword drove for his throat.
Raising his metal talons saved him, but the effort ripped them loose. Golgren immediately dodged underneath the sword and plunged his own weapon into his adversary’s thick stomach.
No sooner had he dispatched that prisoner than the second had tackled him from behind and wrestled him to the ground. A bloody hand crushed his face. Ragged breathing filled his ears, and a heavy weight shoved most of the air from his lungs. Blood trickled down Golgren’s chest, which still felt tight with pain.
But the giant ogre turned his head briefly, and Golgren saw his opportunity. He raised his own head as best he could and bit at his foe’s ear, tearing into it almost with gusto.
His foe howled and pulled away, in the process helping Golgren rip a piece of flesh away from the ear. Spitting out the bloody bit, the grand lord brought his sword up between himself and the prisoner. With as much strength as he could muster, Golgren shoved the sword into the other’s chest.
The larger ogre fell back, his life fluids splashing over Golgren in the process. Wasting not a breath, Golgren slashed at the ogre’s throat and with pleasure watched the blood pour out.
The prisoner grabbed at the gaping wound, but his struggles were in vain. He flailed for nearly a minute before the grand lord put him out of his misery with a thrust to the heart.
The gate opened and Wargroch and the others trotted forward, relieved grins on their faces. Wargroch started to congratulate his master, but suddenly the grand lord felt that same terrible clutching pain at his chest.
“Away!” he snarled at the others. “Away!”
Before they could react, Golgren turned toward the other door, the one through which he had entered, banging on it. The moment it was open, he barged past, leaving his retinue behind.
The guards stationed at intervals in the corridors were wise enough to say nothing as he staggered past them. Golgren cared for nothing at that moment save reaching his quarters.
To the sentries standing outside his doors, the ogre leader commanded, “No one enters!”
As they quickly shut the doors behind him, Golgren scanned the room for any sign of Idaria. Relieved that she was absent, he immediately took hold of the front of his tunic and tore the garment off in shreds. As he did that, Golgren headed to a gilded mirror whose elegant floral etching marked it as yet another prize from lost Silvanost.
And there, the grand lord eyed the two items dangling by chains over his breast.
The smaller of the pair was the tiny, transparent vial no larger than a pin in which a few small drops of thick red liquid were suspended. Golgren touched the vial with his index finger, feeling the warmth of the contents, aware how they were bound to him. The vial was valuable to him-assuming it worked as the Lady Nephera had said it would-and not the cause of his pain.
That, Golgren knew, fell to his severed hand.
The mummified appendage dangled from a thick chain that was laced through the remnants of his severed wrist. The yellowed fingers were still bent as if ready to grab at something. After the Uruv Suurt Faros had cut his hand off in battle and fled the scene, Golgren had scoured the site of his loss until he had found the precious remains. Using ogre embalming techniques generally reserved for the dead, the grand lord had preserved the hand as a grim reminder of his failure that day.
He had worn the hand over his heart since then, even when sleeping. In a morbid manner, its presence also brought him a measure of comfort and confidence. In addition, the rumors that he carried around his severed hand added to his reputation for fierceness, especially since the severed hand was represented on his banner.
But during the fight … but during the fight, the hand had disturbed him.
He prodded the mummified hand. The appendage swung back and forth slightly then stilled. The nails, polished finely, barely grazed the hairs on his chest. The hand was as dead as it seemed. True, death was not always the end of things; his precarious alliance with the late Nephera had proved that. With the powers granted her by her mysterious benefactor-said to be at times either dread Takhisis, foul Morgion, or both-Nephera had controlled the spirits of the dead. Those dead-those f’hanos-had wreaked much havoc, and even Golgren had the occasional nightmare concerning one malevolent spirit of hers.
Takyr.
But Nephera was long dead and, as far as Golgren knew, she would remain so.
Perhaps he had been mistaken about the source of his discomfort. The grand lord started to prod the hand one more time when someone dared pound on his door, demanding entrance.
Quickly grabbing the tatters of his tunic and draping them over his hand, Golgren whirled toward the entrance. “Who dares? Enter!”
“Gaho i verizo na!” blabbered a bug-eyed Khleeg. “Gaho i verizo na iGolgreni!”
For Khleeg of all his people to forget his master’s edict concerning the learning and speaking of Common, with severe punishment for the perpetrator, made the ogre leader instinctively grab at Khleeg and pull him close. “You are forgiven for your intrusion as you ask, Khleeg, if the reason is good.”
Trying to keep his composure, the officer blurted, “F’hanos, Grand Lord! He says much f’hanos!”
Golgren squeezed the hidden, mummified appendage harder as he attempted to understand what Khleeg was saying. Had his thoughts of Nephera brought her creeping back from the beyond? Surely he had heard wrong. “You mean f’han? Someone is dead?”
“No! It-may I bring someone in?”
Impatient, Golgren bade him to do so with considerable haste. Khleeg barked a command at the doorway, and a guard ushered in a warrior who was battered, bloody, and beaten and stared with eyes half-insane that darted to every shadow as if expecting to find something terrible lurking within.
“Thraun,” Khleeg said by way of hasty introduction. “Rode with Captain Tarkus. Toward the west … toward where happened the glorious victory of Golgren over the three.”
“And so?” Judging from the addled expression on Thraun’s face, something terrible had happened to his captain, as well as the others. “You speak of f’han? All dead in the patrol?”
“F’hanos!” shouted Thraun, suddenly flinging himself at Golgren’s knee. The huge warrior clung to his lord as if a child. “F’hanos!”
The repeated word defied Golgren’s comprehension. He looked up at Khleeg. “Explain!”
The officer seized Thraun and pulled him up. Thrusting his face into the shaken warrior’s, Khleeg roared, “Tell all!”